


Poetry Slam, Bam, Thank You Ma'am

by Lurea



Series: Fool Me Once [7]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Arguing, Deacon is maybe a little obsessed, Erectile Dysfunction, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Obsessive Behavior, Post-Break Up, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Trust Issues, if I can't have you no one can!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 14:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16097987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: Nick looked around and lifted one hand in a casual greeting to someone Deacon couldn’t see.  Deacon followed his eyes.  Interior cursing intensified.  Hancock and goddamn MacCready were sitting at a table, drinks in front of them.He grabbed Nick's arm.  "You know what, I think I'll make this an early night."Nick regarded him evenly under the brim of his hat.  "Sure, sure, but first we should probably check in and tell them the news."  And there...wasn't any good answer to that.   Hancock had already straightened up and was staring right at them, while MacCready was slouched down in his chair like a sulky toddler.





	1. I got a brand new attitude

**Author's Note:**

> If you dislike the implication that a member of your main pairing might screw around with someone else, then this fic is not for you! This is not a particularly happy fic. It is necessary. It is a stepping stone on the garden path to our happy ending. Walk it with me, or if you like, wait until the next story posts, which will be significantly more cheerful.
> 
> *Forgot to add: the tags are now complete! (just like last fic there were a few things that I did not want to spoil)

High Rise’s voice was muffled behind the yellow flight helmet that he was wearing. “Well, what about being a chick again, only this time a white girl?” They were both crouched down behind a wrecked car a short distance from a raider hangout. Well, Deacon assumed it was a raider hangout. The dead bodies hanging from various hooks were a big clue. Deacon did not understand the appeal of bodies as home decoration—they stank, they...leaked, they eventually fell off the hook, requiring repositioning and resupplying... A nice painting would be so much better. 

A sudden motion caught his eye. A raider was leisurely scratching his ass at the top of the rickety stairs. He pointed silently and High Rise popped up from behind the car and got him with a clean headshot. The raider tumbled down the stairs bonelessly. Bodies sure attracted raiders, though, because every time they came through here, they had to clear some out. Deacon had a passing thought if burying the bodies and cleaning the shack up would stop them from continually re-infesting the place. Huh. That was an idea. Soap and water as raider repellant. 

Deacon didn’t bother drawing Deliverer. Runs with High Rise always got noisy, fast. He’d brought a modded shotgun in anticipation of that very fact. Another movement as a raider stood up from the couch and began to turn toward the stairs. In his scope, her form was clear, eyes wide and mouth open. He dropped her with a chest shot. Paused, scanning for movement. Nothing. Just the two? Walk in the park. He lowered his gun slowly and answered. “I don’t think so. There’s only so much sexism a girl can take before we just start shooting every idiot that tries to hit on us.” 

High Rise laughed and then unfastened the mouth piece of his helmet. “Good point. Why the rush anyway? Thought you were happy with that face.” 

Deacon felt his smile try to twist off his face and controlled it with an effort. “Oh, you know, the season is changing, the leaves are changing. Makes me think it’s time for a change of my own.” 

Brit-butler made a scolding noise: _No lie ready to trot out? Must Sir go with the...truth?_

Yeah, well, when just managing to crawl out of bed in the morning wasn't the sum total of his ambitions, then he’d start thinking about more. He was hanging around High Rise for some undemanding company that wouldn’t give him the third degree, not because it was a plan or anything. 

High Rise crawled around to the front of the car and scanned the shack and the surrounding streets. “I think it’s clear. Maybe you should tell Drummer to move this drop.” 

Deacon waited a sec, didn’t see anything and then slowly moved forward. High Rise followed behind to cover. The raiders were gone but there could still be ‘lurks, wolves, ghouls, rats, or even Deathclaws hanging around. Or more practically, it could have a note from Desdemona about Mercer Safehouse. The late, great Mercer Safehouse. 

Desdemona can yell or be icily sarcastic through her text and word choice. It was a gift, and one that he had often wished that he had. The most he can manage is a convincing tale-spin, like the safely long-distance explanation regarding the destruction of Mercer. Raiders. Again. What jerks, huh? It was for the best. Once he’d thought about it, Jamaica Plains was too quiet, too far off the beaten path. If there was a lot of extra traffic then they might as well put up a sign for the coursers, THIS WAY TO FUGITIVE SYNTHS. 

He crossed the street, and ducked behind another car. Still nothing. It was early twilight and steadily getting darker. That didn’t mean that someone with a night vision scope wasn’t camped out on the roof, but he thought they would have started shooting by now. High Rise caught up and murmured, “Seriously, there has got to be a quieter spot than this one.” 

“Any further from Bunker Hill and our contact would fuss about the turnaround time. You know he doesn’t go too far afield.” Deacon moved onto the sidewalk next to a tipped-over Nuka-Cola machine. He reached under to check the front compartment reflexively. Empty. Figured. 

The mailbox was about fifty feet away, but there was no cover and a clear sightline between it and the erstwhile raider shack. 

“He’s also not the one checking this damn thing three times a week,” High Rise retorted. 

Deacon thought he heard something and held up both hands. They both froze. Seconds ticked by and then he shrugged. Must not have been anything. For all of High Rise’s complaints, this wasn’t too bad a section of the city. Just a little too close to that big raider gang in Monsignor Plaza which meant frequent stragglers. 

That was why Hangman’s Alley was a much better choice of safe house—far enough from Ticon to be useful but more centrally located in the traffic between Blue’s various settlements and Diamond City. The rec had come straight from P.A.M. Well, that and several others. He’d asked her to list the next best five locations for a safehouse, in descending order of usefulness. The Alley had been number two. He’d managed to slip into HQ one night to consult with P.A.M. and drop off his reports at the precise time when Desdemona and Carrington were absent. Hah. Definitely one of his more useful talents, but one he didn’t utilize too often. He needed them in a good mood, so they’d leave him alone and let him do his thing without interference. This time the benefit had outweighed the later bitching out that was sure to come. 

The folks at Hangman’s Alley included several relocatees from Goodneighbor and they’d brought their hellraising attitude with them. Scared of the Institute? No fucking way! And....no kids. No kids, just five or six grownups and ghouls. That made it simpler. Easier. 

What also helped was lowering expectations. A bunk, supplies, ammo—what more did the Caretaker need? Nothing, that’s what. Quick two days’ worth of scavenging and it was good to go. He escorted the Caretaker personally from Jamaica Plains to Hangman’s Alley, and that guy was about as happy as Deacon had ever seen him. 

He’d worn a gunner bandanna over his face and told the Alley settlers that his name was Lucy. _Man, my parents were high when I was born..._ They were bound to mention it to Blue ...and whoever was with her. Angry twist of satisfaction at the memory. 

High Rise snapped his fingers. “You going to sleep on me, Deacon?” 

Deacon shook off the thoughts. “No way, man. Just doing my zen thing. Fear is the mind-killer, you know.” 

High Rise snorted and they hustled across the open area to the mailbox. Everything was still silent. Some gunshots off in the distance, but not close enough to be trouble. Yet, anyway. He unlocked the back of the old mailbox and removed two envelopes. One—he scanned it rapidly. Standard complaint from Old Man Stockton about High Rise missing a package pick up date. It was dated five days ago. High Rise leaned over his shoulder to read it and made a grumbling noise. 

“One night. I was there the next!” He plucked it out of Deacon’s hand and stuck it in a pocket. “It’s out of date, so no use bothering HQ, right?” 

The other—Deacon unfolded it and winced. 

Desdemona’s handwriting. Addressed directly to him. 

Deacon  
  
Nakano House.  
  
Nick Valentine.  
  
Check it out.  


The icy brevity was almost as bad as yelling. Capslock yelling, even. High Rise gave a low whistle and punched his shoulder. “Doesn’t look like you’ll have time to get a new face.” 

He scribbled: _I hear and obey, O glorious leader—D._ below the last line and replaced it back into the mailbox. High Rise added his report and re-locked it. Deacon sat back on his heels and glanced up at the sky. It wasn’t too late. Nick should be in his office. “Guess I’m headed to Diamond City,” he remarked. 

High Rise shook his head. “Better you than me.” He stuck out a hand and Deacon shook it. “See you soon, Deacon. Take care of yourself.” He moved back into the slanting shadow of the wall behind them and started back towards Ticonderoga. 

Deacon watched him go, laying out his route in his mind. And—last he’d heard, Blue was somewhere south with Cait. So it should be clear—he decided not to finish that thought. He could get to Diamond City before the next guard shift if he hurried. 

 

Two days later, he was huddled outside a ramshackle building freezing his butt off and wishing that he was somewhere else. Nick hadn’t been at his office, but it was easy enough to pick up his trail. Straight to the Nakano house. But now... For one thing, Blue was _here_. For another, Valentine wasn’t the only person with her. 

_Focus, Deacon,_ mental-Dez said sternly. _Your personal bullshit is secondary to this._

He blew on his fingers and shook his head. A synth haven... It was almost unbelievable. He wondered how Desdemona had gotten wind of it. But if the synths were broadcasting this far down the coast, then it was only a matter of time before they got an earful of Institute. Only stupidity or naivete had kept them safe this long. 

There was a click as Kasumi’s final holotape ended. They’d played it twice and the conclusions were pretty clear. He figured it was time to make his entrance. No doors on the building so he straightened up, reached around the edge and knocked against the frame. 

“Knock, knock, it’s Acme calling,” he said. “Anyone order an anvil or some TNT?” Blue whirled around and then relaxed when she saw him. Nick pursed his lips and took his hand away from his pistol. 

“What are you doing here?” she said sharply. The third person in the room dropped his eyes and his weapon and took a step back. Then half-turned away, all casual, as if looking out over the waves. Yeah, right. He was _still_ a shitty liar. The cold wind whistled through the openings in the walls and Deacon saw him shiver and pull his duster more closely around him. Deacon forced a smile onto his face and looked back at Blue. 

“What is TNT anyway?” he asked. “Terrible nuclear torrent? Twice-nothing-time?” 

“Dynamite,” Nick replied dryly. “Or close enough.” 

“I’ll tell you what’s dynamite,” Deacon went on smoothly. “A secret synth haven that no one knew about!” He pointed a finger at Blue. “You make things happen, Blue, Des is so impressed, she wants your secret. And your hair. Mmmm, that sounded more stalkerish than I meant it to.” 

Blue raised her eyebrows skeptically. “How did you know?” 

He spread his hands wide. “Um, dead drop. Secret spy network. Operational ignorance. Any of this getting through that cute little military cap you’re sporting?” 

She gave him a look. “It’s a visor.” 

“Right,” he said hastily. “So, well, tell me all about it. And the plan.” Blue and Nick exchanged glances, while the last member of the party moved into the doorway that opened onto the pier. The moonlight outside made his hair and shoulders look like they were glowing. _Sir should not stare,_ Brit-butler chided and Deacon looked away as the other man stirred. 

“We played the tape twice,” MacCready said. “You know he heard it already.” _Just in case you were forgetting that you and him are not on the same side,_ mental-Dez said sarcastically. Yep. Good ol’ MacCready. Being a predictable jerk. 

Deacon set his teeth with a click. “Did you hear something?” he asked Blue pleasantly. “I thought I heard something.” 

Blue ignored him, turning to look at the synth. “I guess I’m not surprised that the Railroad wants in. Nick, tell me what you think?” Deacon was a little surprised at this show of faith, considering last time he’d seen her, she’d been all about Piper. _Her attention span is not her best quality,_ mental-Dez admitted. Yeah. She was like a strange people-hoarder, not that he should be complaining, since he was one of the hoard-ees. 

Nick lit a cigarette and puffed out a cloud of grey smoke. “I feel like it's too many cooks and all that. No offense, Deacon.” Any way you sliced it, Blue caring for Nick was good news for the Railroad. And one more nail in the Institute’s coffin. 

“None taken, Nick,” Deacon answered, with just a smidge of emphasis on the synth’s name. A short silence fell, with MacCready still standing in the far doorway, Blue turning the tape over in her hands and Nick smoking. Deacon folded his arms and leaned against the work table. There was a work light at one end of the room, casting the desk and file cabinets in sharp relief and everything else in shadow. Finally, the synth cleared his throat. 

“We haven’t updated the client yet,” Nick said, and the ‘not in front of the children, dear’ tone to his voice was perfectly clear. 

To her credit, Blue didn’t visibly react. “Right. Let’s do that.” She shoved the tape into one of the pockets of her Vault suit. “Stay here,” she ordered, when Deacon took a step forward. 

He pressed his lips together and fumed silently. Debated triggering a Stealth Boy and following them, but... He didn’t really think that she’d lie to him about whatever objections Nick may or may not have had. And anyway. Like he was afraid to stand in this boathouse with Robert Joseph MacCready? No. _Fuck_ him. Deacon turned the words over in his mind, savoring the vulgarity. Fuck _him_. Just let him open his mouth and Deacon would say, as easy as anything— 

MacCready shifted in the doorway and then looked over one shoulder and said, “Deacon. Look, I—I’m sorry.” The quiet words drove the air out of Deacon’s lungs and for a second, he was surprised speechless. Then he remembered Mercer and MacCready’s general feelings about synths and ice congealed over his heart. 

“Sorry?” he said and laughed. “What are you talking about? I don’t think we’ve met, dude. You can call me Aaron. I’m with the Railroad, nice to meet ya, pal.” Then he turned around and walked out the door onto the board walk that led up to the house. The wind picked up, nearly knocking his hat off his head and he turned into it, until the cold air brought tears to his eyes. He blinked and jammed his hat back down and walked over to inspect the boat at the dock. Call him crazy, but a place called Far Harbor? They might need a boat. 

He heard raised voices from the house. Then MacCready came to the door of the boathouse, but stopped there. Shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of his duster. Deacon’s pulse picked up, wondering if he would try to talk to him again. Blue and Nick exited the house and started down the path. 

Blue stopped next to him. Nick gave him an unreadable side glance and kept walking. 

“Kenji said we could use his boat. Let’s go,” Blue said. Nick said something to MacCready but he was too far for Deacon to hear. MacCready flicked his collar up around his jaw and wrapped the bedraggled duster tighter around him. 

Blue made an impatient noise that drew his attention back to her. “Now?” he asked. 

She looked at him steadily. “Are you saying you’re unprepared?” MacCready said something back to Nick and handed him something. Deacon caught a glimpse of metal. Ammo? 

He smiled at her. “Unprepared? Me? Blue, I make boy scouts cry with my amount of preparedness.” 

She climbed onto the boat, and grimaced. “Not my fave means of transit, but we’ll make do.” Walked into the cabin with only a couple of mis-steps and surveyed the console. Deacon hoped that she knew what she was doing. 

Nick turned around and walked back up the dock, but MacCready didn’t follow. He stayed in the doorway, shadowed enough that Deacon couldn’t see his face. Nick climbed on board. “You coming or you stayin’?” the old synth asked. The yellow glow of his eyes raked across Deacon’s face. “If you’re staying, Kenji’ll put you up.” 

Deacon grinned cheerfully. “Please! And miss an exciting adventure to the far north?” He shivered dramatically. “Good thing I brought layers.” He stepped onto the board propped against the boat...edge? Side? Whatever. Nick grabbed his hand and steadied him and he crossed and stepped down into the craft. It felt a lot more precarious than the dock had. It tipped to one side suddenly and he grabbed the railing to keep from falling and then half-sat, half-fell on a convenient pile of canvas. 

Nick’s lips quirked. Okay, that wasn’t fair. Blue had probably ridden these before they were two-hundred-year-old death traps and Nick had all those old-timey memories. He glanced over his shoulder to see MacCready still in the doorway. Deacon’d like to see how well _he’d_ keep his feet. 

The engine started and Nick pulled the board onto the deck and coiled up a rope that Deacon hadn’t noticed before. MacCready finally left the doorway of the boat house and started walking along the board walk. Then the engine kicked up higher and they started edging away from the dock, slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed. 

“Wait a minute,” Deacon said. His gaze swung from Nick to the dock that they were rapidly leaving behind. MacCready had reached the end and stood watching them over a widening gulf of dark water. “Don’t tell me Blue’s leaving her boytoy behind?” 

One of Nick’s eyebrows arched. “ _Her_ boytoy?” he said. Deacon didn’t reply and Nick shook his head. “Supplies for three. Why, you wanna go back?” 

MacCready took his cap off and combed one hand through his hair restlessly. Then he straightened up and half-lifted one hand, like in an aborted wave. Deacon turned away from the sight deliberately. “I don’t want to go back,” he told Nick. “Lay on, MacDuff.”


	2. I'm alright, I'm just fine

Deacon leaned against the monument at Bunker Hill and tried not to look as worried as he felt. Drummer Boy was waiting at HQ, but he was betting that Blue would show up here first. He’d gotten a message yesterday from Coastal Cottage that there had been lights and activity at the Nakano place. He had dropped everything because... 

Gunfire from the northeast again, but this time, he could hear the distinctive bark of Blue’s Brotherhood rifle. He sank down on the ground and bowed his head, just another tired caravan hand taking a nap. Plus, now that he knew she was coming, he might as well get some rest. 

It was nearly an hour later before she and Nick slipped in through the defenses, and Deacon was waiting by the Brahmin pen, scratching one of its noses and trying to avoid the head that wanted to nip at him. 

She saw him and came over. “Hey, you happen to have a Geiger counter?” 

He shrugged without looking at her. “Mine’s in the shop.” Then he took a quick look around. No one was paying attention to them. He whispered, “Ticon’s gone dark.” 

 

It was bad news. It was _always_ bad news, damn it. He’d hung back when Blue went up to talk to the courser and then pulled her gun and shot it in the face. He’d helped clear out the gen-1s on autopilot, trying not to see the scattered bodies of Railroad agents and personnel. 

When they were done, Nick lowered his pistol and sighed. “It’s a damn shame.” Blue began stripping fusion cells and scrap from the synths. 

Deacon nodded, not quite able to speak. Why had Ticonderoga been hit now? Had they slipped up, that day at the dead drop? Was it related to the Switchboard and if so, why had the Institute waited so long? Was it as stupid as a courser walking by at the right time? He found High Rise’s body and turned him over. Laser blasts to the chest and throat. No signs of torture. 

“They didn’t even ask him any questions,” he commented, his voice steadier than he felt. He closed High Rise’s eyes and looked through his pockets for a letter or memento. A lot of them carried things like that, if, _when_ , the bad guys caught up with them. Deacon had never carried one himself, but gotten a depressing amount of practice at passing them on. He found nothing, and only then remembered that High Rise had been close to Ms. Boom, dead at .. The Switchboard? Or had she been killed at... No, it was the Switchboard. Christ, there were so many that he was losing track. 

No memento from High Rise because the person closest to him was dead already. Deacon stared at his face and wondered why the fuck _he_ was still alive, when all these others, worthier, nicer, better people were _gone_. It made no fucking sense. He sighed and rubbed his face. God, he was tired. 

Blue touched his shoulder lightly. “You all right?” 

“Yeah.” He hesitated, casting about for something else to say. “I’m getting worried about Bunker Hill, though. It’s too close to Ticon for comfort.” He sounded calm and professional. He was pretty proud of that. 

Something flickered in her eyes, and Deacon went on alert. He hadn’t forgotten that she was still the Institute’s golden child, the director’s pet. (And why was that, anyway? The Institute had her son somehow, he was sure of it, so why did she keep cooperating, instead of taking him back and blowing it up? He didn’t know and she wouldn’t tell.) “You know something about Bunker Hill?” he asked her. 

“Not really,” she said, slowly. She saw the look on his face and held one hand up. “I don’t know anything for sure, Deacon, I promise.” She glanced down at High Rise with sadness in her eyes. “He was a good man, though. He deserved better.” 

“Don’t we all,” Deacon answered. 

She bit her lip and then her face firmed with resolution. “I haven’t checked in with, uh—with them for a while. I’m gonna go and see what I can find out. And— it’s time I got back to Virgil. Can you and Nick collect my power armor? Rowdy’s got it.” 

Deacon nodded, “Sure thing, boss.” 

She thumbed through the settings on her Pip-Boy. “Stand back.” Deacon averted his eyes when a white beam of light slashed down and enveloped her form. Small lightnings crawled across the floor, sputtered and then faded away. She was gone. 

Nick shook his head. “Who’d believe it?” he asked. “I almost don’t and I saw it.” 

Deacon folded High Rise’s arms across his chest. “Yeah. It’s something, all right.” He checked his weapon in case any more synths were hanging around and decided to change the subject. “So, what happened with Old Longdick?” 

The only good thing about Far Harbor was...nothing as far as he was concerned. Blue’d fallen in with a grizzled old cuss, trapper-type. He and that guy had hated each other on sight. He’d spent a day sniping steadily away at Longfellow’s equanimity with the most innocent comments that he could think of: _Those synths seem like they’re really making something of the Island! Wow, why are the humans so touchy? There’s nothing wrong with a little religious tolerance. The Children of Atom were always peaceful in the Capital Wasteland. At least The Children are hard workers and they believe in something, you have to give them credit for that. Maybe Blue should check them out—_

Then the old fart had lost his temper and almost shoved Deacon off a dock. Blue had gotten between them and dismissed him. Hmph. Unfair, Blue. She was still maybe a bit pissed about Mercer. “Go home, Deacon. I’ll catch up with you later.” Unspoken: _Recite three Hail Marys and an Our Father. Go forth, ye sinner and sin no more._

Fat chance of that happening. He’d gotten a ride from a big, good-looking synthetic side of beef named Brooks. He had more than a passing resemblance to a certain Brotherhood type, which Deacon found...interesting. Not interesting enough to stay in Far Harbor, though. Besides, if he knew Blue as well as he thought he did—and he did—she'd be back to hit that, guaranteed. 

Nick looked at him wryly. “Old Longfellow, you mean? We found Kasumi. She didn’t want to go home. Blue’s supposed to go back, to try and reason with those Atom fanatics. But she got nervous about being out of touch.” He hesitated for an instant and went on, “The synth refuge—Arcadia—it was... interesting. The leader was different.” There was a strained tone to Nick’s voice that Deacon didn’t remember hearing before. 

He looked at him with interest. “Really? Different how?” 

Nick dropped his eyes and rummaged in his coat for a pack of cigarettes. “He was a gen two, an experimental model like me. Said we knew each other—before the cranial download.” He tapped one finger to the side of his skull and shrugged. “I don’t remember.” His tone was casual but Deacon wasn’t fooled. 

“Well,” Deacon paused, uncertain how to continue. “Sounds like you could have a place there if you wanted.” 

He was aware of a certain amount of internal dismay. Nick was as close to a constant ally in Diamond City as there could be. Him leaving would be... Well, it would leave a hole in the Railroad, that was for sure. And what about Blue? Nick was the most sensible of the folks that she regularly ran with. No telling the crazy crap she’d get up to with only someone like Cait or Mac—or Hancock around. (Deacon didn’t really count himself; sensible was not spending your life fighting an organization that murdered everyone you cared about on the regular.) 

Nick still wasn’t meeting his eyes. “We’ll see, I guess. But I’m sticking with Blue for now.” He flicked his cigarette away and cleared his throat. “Anyway. So, off to the Atom Cats. If you can?” 

Deacon tried not to think that if Blue’d been here instead up the fuck in Maine, that High Rise might still be kicking. Not a good idea. That way lay madness. Instead think about the Atom Cats. Groovy, man. Decent walk if they didn’t rush. 

He pulled some crappy leather armor out of his pack and started strapping it on. Added a battered militia hat pulled down over his eyes. “Nick, meet Red.” He tried pitching his voice higher and softer, and liked the effect. Soft-spoken but deadly. Nice. “Hello? I’ll be your bodyguard for the next few days?” Red’s polite but he’ll ventilate your cranium if you get on his bad side. 

Nick looked amused. “Nice to meet ya, Red,” he said. “We goin’ from here or do you need to check in somewhere?” 

“I’m all yours, mate,” Deacon assured him. “Strong, silent type, that’s me? Just point me at the baddies and watch my amazing skills with...” He trailed off, almost said _with a rifle_ , before being suddenly reminded of MacCready, his quick clever fingers, the way the muscles in his shoulders bunched when he lifted a gun, his calves, his thighs... Shook his head like he could physically dislodge the memories. 

_Worse than a kid with a crush_ , mental-Dez said acerbically. _Are you the top agent or not?_ Stop it, he retorted mentally. He was Deacon, he was a spy for the Railroad and he had dedicated his life to synth freedom. True, true and doubly-true. 

He cleared his throat and smiled at Nick. “Never mind that? Me mouth gets ahead of my head sometimes.” 

Nick’s metal hand clicked on the down button of the elevator. “Just your mouth? Coulda fooled me.”


	3. I'm having more fun, now that we're done

A day and a half later, Deacon was squinting through misty fog for the Atom Cat’s sign. Fog was definitely a pro and con weather condition. Made you more difficult to find but also made your own vision suck. That didn't matter so much in the city, where you could be sure that most of the nasties were in the buildings, also hunkered down and cursing the bad weather, but out here on the edge of the swamp south of Jamaica Plains, the things most likely to kill you weren't bothered by it at all. 

Deacon's neck kept itching and he kept looking over one shoulder. Regular ol' mirelurks weren't that big of a deal, but Blue, with her incredible talent for finding the worst, had run into a fucking mirelurk behemoth—the Mariner had called it a Queen. That thing had made it significantly more difficult for him to treat mirelurks with his former bored condescension. Of course, the constant tension made it easier not to think about the fact that the life expectancy of the average Railroad agent was dropping at a steadily _increasing_ rate. 

Dull glow up ahead indicated the Atom Cats garage. Deacon let out a sigh of relief. They might be a kooky bunch of greasers but they had guns, a fence and a safe space. He shifted his pack on his back. Both him and Nick were loaded down with bits of lead and metal and circuits. 

Nick shook water off his hat and put it back on his head. "It’s about time. What say we stop here for the night? I don't need to eat or sleep but I know you do. And this rain gets a little tedious." 

"Yeah," Deacon answered. "Thanks for the thought." They picked their way over the rough ground and Deacon stepped square into a water-filled hole that was deep enough to slosh cold, cold water over the top of his boot. Awesome. At least nothing leaped out of it and tried to eat him. Shortly beyond was a section of road that was in relatively good shape. They walked along it for the last half-mile or so, while Deacon’s foot squelched and got progressively chillier. It had been a long day, grey and overcast and drizzling. Nick hadn’t pushed him, even though he could have run the whole way, synth as he was. The old detective was a considerate traveling partner. Maybe not his first choice—his mind firmly re-routed that thought—because his first choice was to be on his own, footloose and fancy-free. Blue had recently begun insisting that none of them go anywhere alone and while Deacon felt free to ignore that when he was on Railroad business, he couldn't on Minuteman errands. 

Mental-Dez snorted. _You’re still hiding from me._ Deacon wasn’t saying that she, or rather the internal personification of his cold rational side was _right_ , but if uncomfortable questions were going to be asked about the fate of Mercer Safehouse, then he would prefer that they not be asked of him. Or only him, at any rate. His preference: happening through HQ with Blue in tow when Desdemona decided to speak to him. His secondary concern: delaying long enough that Desdemona cornered Blue on one of her own trips through HQ. Blue was too frank for his tastes, it was one of her biggest flaws. He couldn’t predict what she might say. And Desdemona… Well, he’d always kept her blissfully ignorant on, let’s say, the seedier aspects of his information gathering. Seedier, hah. 

He wasn’t sure if MacCready would count as fraternization in her eyes or not. Technically, he wasn’t Railroad. In actuality, given the connection with Blue, she’d probably count it as close enough. (How did he know that Blue knew all about Mercer and the aftermath? Well, kiddies, let’s be honest. There was no way that Robert subtle-as-a-Deathclaw MacCready had kept it from her.) The interesting question, the sixty-five-thousand cap question, as some might say, was why Desdemona’s probable reaction hadn’t deterred him back in Jamaica Plains, when in an excess of sentiment and stupidity, he’d told Robert that they were a ‘thing’. He winced mentally. Hanging around MacCready regressed him in so many ways. 

“Red?” 

Not that it mattered now. They were _done,_ him and MacCready, he was back to normal and feeling so much better. More like himself again. Definitely. One thousand percent better. 

“Red!” Nick gave him a curious look, and Deacon realized that he had been trying to get his attention. They were standing in front of the Atom Cats’ locked gate. "Hey, Red, you in there?” 

Deacon shook off his thoughts and smiled brightly. “Yeah? Me and no other, I think? What time is it?” 

Nick pursed his lips and said, “It’s around seven-ish, give or take a few minutes. It's been a while since I was able to synchronize my chronometer, if you get my meaning." 

"Right. No problem." Deacon could see one of the guards in their power armor emerging from the fog. He raised an arm in greeting and after a moment, the other responded. From the customization on the armor, it looked like Duke. Interesting. He was usually out on scouting runs. 

Duke walked over and opened the gate and beckoned them inside. "Nick! Where’s Blue? And who’s this?” Duke looked at him and Deacon dropped his chin under the bill of his cap. Duke turned his attention back to Nick. “You're just in time for Poetry Night!" 

Nick's tone was flat and even. "Lucky us. We wouldn't want to miss Poetry Night." 

"Yeah, metal-man, you gotta make the scene—show us how it's done, old-school style!" Duke closed the fence gate and re-chained it. 

Deacon tipped his hat back from his forehead and Duke did a double-take. “Deacon!” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Welcome, man! Now I know you’re down for Poetry Night.” One of the Cats' eyebots was hovering over his left shoulder. It beeped and then took off around the perimeter. He smacked Deacon’s shoulder and his wet armor squished. Duke made a face. “Better dry off, dude. That’s why I keep telling you—you should be metal!” 

Deacon smothered a grin. "Power armor’s a little loud for me, thanks. Hey, is it alright if we crash here tonight? We need to check in with Rowdy, but it can wait till morning." 

"Yeah, man, that's hip. With you two, we’re really gonna have a full house tonight!" Duke tugged on the gate to check it and then whistled to the ‘bot. 

A full house, what did that mean? Deacon hesitated. "Wait, what?" Duke turned away and didn’t answer. That was unusual. The only people who traveled a lot in the Commonwealth were the caravans and traders, and those were staggered days apart in their circuit. The other most frequent travelers were Minuteman patrols and of course, Blue and her band of misfits. There was no reason to think that.... 

"Hey, Duke, who else is here?" he called after him. Duke was already out of earshot, plus he probably hadn't even heard him over the hydraulics of his suit. Deacon turned and found Nick staring at him, gleaming golden eyes cutting through the misty gloom. "What?" 

Nick looked thoughtful. "You got a problem, Deacon?" 

Deacon smiled easily, and forced himself to relax. "What? No, of course not. You know me, I like to keep tabs on people, things, travelers." He pointed randomly. "For example, that's the fifty-seventh wrecked car that we've passed." 

Nick didn’t say anything more and they walked over to Rowdy’s workspace. She wasn’t there, but Blue’s armor was, in pieces on the frame and looking depressingly incomplete. They dumped the bits of metal and components out of their packs onto Rowdy’s workbench. She was probably at Poetry Night; he could update her then. They could already hear the dull throb of music from the main garage. Deacon brushed rain water off his shoulders. His loose shirt was cold and clammy and his soaked boot was starting to rub. He probably looked like a drowned rat. Not his finest moment. It would hurt his professional pride to let anyone see him looking like this. “Think I’ll change first,” he said and Nick nodded. 

He circled around the main building to the guest areas. Blue had sweet-talked Zeke into letting her set one of them up, a trailer that Danse had dragged in from the junkyard. Hey, the muscle-bound jerk was good for some things. The other was an old bus that had been there forever. 

Deacon looked around the bus carefully but nothing had changed from the last time that he’d been there. A couple of mattresses and sleeping bags, a locking chest in one corner and a cooler for snacks. Clean and dry, at least. And—he sniffed. Didn't smell like anyone had been there recently. The air was saturated with rain, with an underlying hint of metal and sand. He dropped his and Nick's packs in a corner. Stripped off the guard stuff that he'd been wearing and hung it up on hooks to dry. 

Then he rummaged through his pack for clean clothes. Blue jacket, jeans, utility overalls, several shirts, and oh, um... At the very bottom, carefully folded and tied into a tight package was a sweater that he’d picked up in Far Harbor. A soft knit with a bright patterned band of blues, browns and yellows across the chest. It was pretty swell. His fingers stroked gently over the weave. Too distinctive for the Cats, though. He touched it one more time, let his fingers linger an instant longer and then tucked it securely back in one corner, where it wouldn’t get damaged. 

He dragged out thankfully-dry jeans, a muscle tee and a leather jacket. Sneaks and dry socks for his feet. There. Now he'd fit right in. Just another one of the gang, hanging out for Poetry Night. His scalp was still too cold and wet for a wig so he settled for a battered fedora. He adjusted it to a jaunty tilt and squared his shoulders. All right. He was ready for anything and he looked _fine._

He paused at the door of the bus and looked over at the trailer, in the corner by the perimeter fence. No lights on. It was barely visible in the low light, but he saw no evidence of occupation. If there were caravanners here, they usually just slept in the main area but a patrol group or... Or someone else might be in there. Whoever it might be. The door was closed; probably locked, although that didn't mean much, he could have it open in a— 

"Does that trailer owe you money?" Nick called from where he was waiting patiently under the canopy. 

Deacon pulled his attention away with an effort and smiled. "No, although I admit it looks a little shady." Then had to shove that thought away because that tread too close to things that he _didn't_ want to think about. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He was keyed-up and anxious, with both a low-level sense of dread coiling through his stomach and a painfully sharp feeling of anticipation tightening his throat. 

He followed Nick through the door, hanging back to get a good look at the room before entering. Gang members sprawled around on scavenged couches and chairs, and Cricket and her crew were up front. There was a smoky haze in the air from cigarettes and something that Bluejay was grilling behind the counter. 

Nick looked around and lifted one hand in a casual greeting to someone Deacon couldn’t see. Deacon stepped through the door and followed his eyes. Interior cursing intensified. Hancock and goddamn MacCready were sitting at a table, drinks in front of them. There’s a sinking leaden feeling in his stomach, contrasted with a completely contradictory happy feeling in his head. _Fuck._

He grabbed Nick's arm. "You know what, maybe I'll make this an early night." 

Nick regarded him evenly under the brim of his hat. "Sure, sure, but first we should probably check in and tell them the news." And there...wasn't any good answer to that, at least not any that didn't reveal more than he wanted to reveal. Hancock had already straightened up and was staring right at them, while MacCready was slouched down in his chair like a sulky toddler. 

Deacon and Nick threaded their way through the assembled Cats. A couple were up dancing to the jukebox, playing ‘Right Behind You Baby.’ _You can make up your face, uh, dye your hair, no matter what you do, turn around and I’ll be there..._

Zeke was to one side, kneeling in front of some speakers. Nice set up—more extensive than the last time he’d been here. Roxy ran a line from Zeke’s bulky recorder to the amplifier and then to the old-fashioned microphone and plugged it in. Harsh squeal of feedback made everyone put their hands over their ears and curse. 

Nick snagged a couple of chairs and plunked them down. The record changed with a clunk and switched to the silky vocals of ‘Undecided.’ _First you say you do, and then you don’t.... And then you say you will and then you won’t._ Deacon felt tension creeping into his jaw and neck. Stupid fucking song. 

MacCready was staring down into his drink, his posture casual, but his left hand was tucked tightly underneath one of the ammo belts strapped to his thigh. The knuckles were white. Deacon stared at it and thought, _got ya._ He loosened his own shoulders carefully, tipped his hat back and grinned at Hancock. 

"Deacon, good to see you. Nick, you old dog! How they hanging?" Hancock exclaimed, his voice pitched over the noise. The record stuttered briefly and repeated a couple of lines. _If you’ve got a heart and if you’re kind—if you’ve got a heart and if you’re kind—_ One of the Cats kicked it and it went on. _Then don’t keep us apart, make up your mind..._ Deacon suppressed the urge to whirl around and glare at the jukebox. It’s not _my_ fault! 

Brit-butler, the other logical voice in his head, cleared his throat. _Sir should leave immediately. Pausing, only briefly, to utter a denunciation._

The ghoul picked up a bottle of amber liquid and tipped it in Deacon’s direction, eyebrows raised. Yeah. Storming out might be the _logical_ thing to do, but it wouldn’t improve his or the Railroad’s ties with Blue’s crew. He’d sit down, chat a little, have a drink. Something to keep his hands busy, and maybe his mind off....whatever. 

_So what are you going to do,_ Ella Fitzgerald sang and Deacon felt tension creeping back into his shoulders. There were some clean-ish looking cups stacked on a back table. He walked back and grabbed the first one to hand and turned back around as Nick was settling next to Hancock. Which....damn. Left only one empty seat. Next to MacCready, who was now leaning casually on his left elbow. Deacon would be sitting on his right. He felt a humorless grin stretching his mouth. Not stupid, MacCready. 

Deacon sat down and Hancock poured him a shot. He tipped it up and sipped, using the cover to give the man next to him a quick raking glance from head to toe. Duster, hat, scarf, what looked to be..two shirts? Yeah, at least two, because there were navy blue cuffs visible at his wrists but a faded gray collar peeking out from under his scarf. Two belts, plus the ammo around his thigh. Mental flash of sliding smooth leather through the loops until it sagged down and open, revealing skin.... Deacon’s fingers tightened on the glass. The alcohol went down his throat like a warm embrace, soothing and smoothing all the rough edges. Before he could stop himself, he swallowed the whole thing, hardly tasting it. Medicine to keep the memories away. 

Nick cleared his throat and gave the ghoul a dry smile. "We’re all fine, Hancock, thanks for the concern." Glanced over at Deacon and then back at the ghoul. "What brings you two out here on this damp and foggy night?" 

Hancock said, "Kidnapped settler," at the same time MacCready said, "Warwick pump repairs." 

Pause and then they both looked at each other. Hancock scratched his forehead under his tricorn hat. "I thought we were rescuing that guy." 

MacCready frowned. "Nah, Hancock, Cait and Piper were handling that. The pump at Warwick, we gotta take them some parts. Remember?" 

"Well," Hancock shrugged affably. "I musta been high." He tossed back his drink and poured another. Poured for Deacon, too. Tipped it up, sipped, _just_ sipped this time. He couldn’t gulp it down, not without— 

His voice was surprisingly even, considering that his mouth opened up without a lot of conscious thought on his part. “Really? Did you know that Warwick has a synth?” 

Hancock looked up, while MacCready immediately tensed. Deacon could see his left hand creeping down to clutch tightly at his ammo. Probably his little holdout pistol was on that side, too. 

Hancock said, “Hmmm...Institute? Blue knows?” 

Deacon nodded and then smiled sunnily. “Sure she does. Why let that stop you? Kill ‘em all, burn Warwick down, sterilize those nasty synths—” 

MacCready interrupted him. “Yeah. Overreact much, Deacon?” 

Deacon set his glass down a little harder than he intended and the liquor slopped over one side. “Really? I’m overreacting? _I’m_ overreacting. Wow. Well, good to know, MacCready, thanks for sharing.” 

MacCready turned just enough that he could see his face, eyes narrowed and lips in a thin line. He said angrily, “I was always honest with you— not constantly lying about who I was and what I was doing!” 

Deacon sneered: “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back, _merc._ ” He was suddenly aware of a hand on his arm. Looked up into Nick’s frowning face. 

Nick said, with obvious irritation, “You two are drawing attention to us.” 

Hancock’s eyes were sparkling with mischief. “Aww, c’mon, Nicky, I haven’t had any new gossip in ages.” Nick shifted his gaze to him and Hancock grumbled. “All right, fine. Drinks for everybody.” He refilled all the cups plus Deacon’s again, which caused a thread of worry. He didn’t remember emptying it. And that was his normal habit—tip it out because drinking was a no-go. He couldn’t afford to get drunk and besides, with his history... 

Nick interrupted his uneasy musings. “Well, we’re here to check on Blue’s power armor.” Severe look at all three of them. “She’s headed back into the Glowing Sea.” 

Deacon stared at the dark liquor in his cup while Nick quickly updated the other two on Ticonderoga and Far Harbor. Maybe he shouldn’t— Before he could stop himself, he lifted the cup to his nose and inhaled. Mossy, grainy smell. Jet went great with bourbon. Something about the roasted razorgrain taste combined with inhaled sharp menthol.... He didn’t have any Jet. He eyed Hancock with interest. _No._ He didn’t want any Jet. 

MacCready leaned forward, listening to Nick. His lips parted, pink, chapped lips, but then he changed his mind and shut his mouth. Toyed with that cup that Deacon still hadn’t seen him take a drink from. Long, slim fingers, speckled with black powder marks. _I like your hands..._ Deacon lifted the cup and took another drink, let the taste roll over his tongue. To keep the thoughts at bay. Any thoughts. Screw moderation tonight. Obliteration as fast as possible—that was the key. 

Deacon wiped his forehead and took a deep breath. MacCready glanced at him, once and away, so quickly Deacon almost thought he’d imagined it. Then he straightened up in his seat and leaned toward Nick. 

"So if the armor’s not ready, where are you headed?" MacCready asked the synth. “Maybe you guys can run that stuff to Warwick, then we can backup Piper and Cait.” 

Deacon lifted one hand and roughly wiped bourbon off his lips. "What, and miss Poetry Night? You can't miss that, besides..." He looked over at MacCready and met his gaze for the first time, "We’re not doing _your_ damn job." 

MacCready dropped his eyes immediately. “I didn’t say that,” he said carefully. “I just meant if you were going that direction.” 

“No, we should all follow Cait and Piper,” Hancock rumbled. “Screw the boring shit, that'll be more fun.” He leaned over and filled Deacon’s cup again. “And that’ll keep me away from that jerk Danse.” 

“Yeah? What’s he done now?” Nick asked and Hancock launched into some complicated tale involving Danse, an ammo stash and a ghoul friend of Hancock’s. Deacon lost the thread of it about two sentences in. He tilted his cup and watched the reflections of the lights waver while he nodded in the appropriate places and watched MacCready out of the corner of his eye. 

One side of MacCready's mouth quirked up while he listened, as if he were remembering something about the flag-waving tin can. Like his backside as he beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom at Bunker Hill. And then... The memory caught Deacon off guard and sadness washed over him. He took another drink, large enough that the alcohol burned on the way down. Distraction. Just what he needed. Mmmm. He wondered where Hancock had gotten the liquor. 

“So yeah, the guy’s on my list now and I don’t care who knows it,” Hancock finished up. He held up the bottle and Deacon had enough sense to pull his glass back out of reach. His empty glass. Shit. 

Hancock squinted at him. "So, Deacon, you been awful quiet.” His eyes cut across to MacCready and Deacon could swear the jerk was laughing. “Whatcha been up to? Haven't seen you since we blew through Corvega." 

"Raider limbs and car parts. Fun times," Deacon agreed. "You know me, just wandering around keeping an eye on things. Although some asshole burned down Jamaica Plains.” He clapped his lips shut, but he’d already said it, said what he couldn’t stop thinking about, more fool him. MacCready went stiff from outrage next to him and Deacon wanted to laugh. See, that was a clue. If you did something and... uh... _Friends_ couldn’t joke about it without you getting defensive, then what you did was crappy. Ipso, whatever-o. Right? Right. 

Hancock whooped and Nick gave him a stern look. Deacon did his best _who me?_ face. Nick looked unimpressed. Come to think of it, he wasn’t actually sure how much Nick knew. Nick knew not, because Nick knew _naught._ Neat pun. Deacon suppressed the urge to laugh. 

“A fire? Sounds pretty hot,” Hancock said, his dark eyes gleaming. A fellow after his own heart. Deacon nodded and gestured. Had to pull up sharply to keep his hand from knocking Nick’s hat off. Getting a little too loose. He rolled his shoulders experimentally. Yep. _Loooooose._

MacCready rapped his knuckles on the table sharply. "Yeah, that’s a big no. The settlement’s fine, Deacon’s full of crap. He’s just mad that I stopped him from screwing over a bunch of innocent people for the Railroad." 

Nick frowned. "Wait a minute, there. What are you saying?" 

"Ah, you know." MacCready's voice was icy. "Railroad likes to use kids and families as camouflage. We’ve all cleaned up the bodies after the Institute finds out." 

"It's not quite as evil as, you know, ignoring slavery, or murdering whoever you disagree with, or burning stuff down. And it’s not like you hung around to be sure the settlement didn’t catch," Deacon said quietly, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. 

Ella finished the song with a big flourish: _I love you so much, honey, I got to know, I’m just a fool for you, what are you going to do?_

MacCready started to push his chair back and Deacon stuck his foot through the legs and stopped it from moving. MacCready looked down at his leg and then up into his face. His jaw tightened. “I told you I was sorry,” he said evenly. “And I meant it.” 

Deacon leaned toward him, drawn helplessly, like a magnet to iron. Wasn’t sure if he wanted to hit him or kiss him. In his peripheral vision, he saw Nick and Hancock exchanging glances. "Easy there, fellas," Hancock said, patting MacCready's shoulder. 

"Yeah," Nick echoed him. "Let's try and keep this friendly, all right, Deacon?" Deacon glared at all of them. Sure, forget his lifelong mission of freeing synths from literal slavery—hey, he shouldn’t be so _heavy._

"Friendly? Sure, I can do that. Hey, MacCready, why don't you share some more of your thoughts with Nick about how synths aren't worth saving? Nick, listen, this is great stuff," Deacon said. 

MacCready gave him a furious look. "That's not what I said and you know it." 

Deacon was struggling to keep everything down, contained, under control, but things were...slipping. Suddenly his hand shot out and grabbed MacCready's arm, fist bunching in the fabric of his stupid duster sleeve and gave it a shake. Felt the warmth of his body under his fingertips, the bulk of his biceps. "I remember exactly what you said," he hissed. 

MacCready didn't pull away and punch him, like Deacon was half-expecting him to do. He leaned closer until he could stare into Deacon's eyes from under the brim of his cap. "Then you remember that there's an asshole that used to be named Allen walking around that I let go—for _you_ —I mean, because it was what _you_ wanted!" 

MacCready's eyes dropped to Deacon's mouth and then darted away. Deacon felt his breath catch and MacCready glanced back, his eyes still angry but also— 

Nick reached around and pulled Deacon’s hand off MacCready's arm, and Hancock grabbed Mac's shoulders and pushed him back into his seat. 

"I don't know what the hell's gotten into you two, but it stops right now," Nick snapped. 

"Yeah, have a drink, take a fucking chill pill," Hancock said. He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a tin of Mentats, a Jet inhaler and a Med-X syringe. Deacon stared at them, spread carelessly across the table and his mouth went dry. Just one....any one and all of this current nastiness would float right out of his head, he would float, light and free of all mundane considerations. 

He shook off Nick's hand irritably. Stared down at the floor and tried to sort his thoughts out. Number one, he really didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity of Robert Joseph MacCready. Or this table. Everything else paled next to that consideration. He pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up, almost stumbling but managed to catch himself on the edge of the table. 

He’d noticed on his earlier scan of the room that Rowdy was sitting alone on a ratty-looking sofa, off to one side. Deacon grabbed his drink and flicked the collar of his jacket up along his jawline. When the others looked up at him, he carefully smoothed the leather down over his hips. 

"Gentlemen," he said with a mocking half-bow. Then he turned his back on all of them and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note my astonishment at finding several Fallout songs whose lyrics I could relate to Mac and Deacon!! Things are starting to heat up now, so please leave me a comment to let me know you're reading! Also...have you ever confronted an ex unexpectedly?!? How did it go? How did YOU feel?


	4. So what, I'm still a Rock Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: (not explicit) Deacon/Rowdy , Bluejay/MacCready

That was it. Deacon couldn’t take being in the vicinity of MacCready for even one more minute. He turned his back on all of them and walked across the room. Rowdy was sitting on a couch to one side, hunched over the coffee table and scribbling on a piece of paper. Deacon cleared his throat. "May I?" 

She looked up and saw him and her smile brightened. "Sure." She patted the sofa cushion next to her invitingly. He sat down, legs akimbo and one arm flung along the sofa’s back. “Deac, how you doin’?” she asked absently, looking back at the paper. 

Deacon took a sip of his drink. "Well enough, though I sure miss your beautiful face. How’s Blue’s armor coming along?" 

She glanced up, looking distracted. "Um. Okay. I ran out of lead, and a few other things. It was in pretty bad shape. If you guys can get me some more metal and circuits, then I could maybe get it finished sooner." 

"Angel, I am the answer to your prayers," Deacon said. "I already dumped off a bunch of supplies for you, yes, including lead." She went back to looking down at her paper, lips moving as she whispered to herself. "You going to be gracing us with some poetry," he said, guessing. Their obsession with crappy, rhyme-less poetry was one of the more amusing—and endearing—things about the Cats. 

She looked up and flushed pink. "I—I don't think so. It's not ready." 

"Come on. That's what every writer thinks. I'm sure everyone'll love it," he encouraged. Leaned forward and tried to sneak a look over her shoulder. Ode to my...hammer? Okay, well, that sounded...interesting. He tried to think of something positive to say. 

Up front, the jukebox flipped over to a slow song. Zeke left off messing with the equipment and pulled Roxy into a dance. Gentle, yearning voice from the singer: _Why does the sun go on shining? Why does the sea rush to shore?_

Zeke whispered something to Roxy and she giggled and leaned her head on his shoulder. The perfect Pre-war picture, Roxy in her red skirt and Zeke in a leather jacket. The rebel and the beauty. Ninety pages of school shenanigans and plot-twists before they got together with a promise ring and a chaste kiss at the end. Standard happy-ever-after. Was there ever anything more unrealistic? More _hackneyed?_

“That’s new,” he said, gesturing to them with his drink, sour taste in his mouth. Took another sip to wash it away. 

Rowdy looked up and pushed her dark hair behind her ears. “Oh, yeah, they’re super stuck on each other lately. Zeke’s talking about settling down and everything.” Zeke stepped back and did a flourish-y little dip with Roxy and then pulled her back upright and gave her a kiss on the lips. Both of them grinning like...idiots. New love. What brahminshit. 

_How is the self-flagellation going, Sir?_ Brit-butler piped up. _Not tired of it yet, I see._

“That relationship will never last,” he said, shrugged. “I give it a month, then he’ll probably kick her out to fuck someone else. Does she even have anywhere to go? No? Never screw the boss, that’s my motto.” _Don’t they know it’s the end of the world, it ended when you said goodbye._ The end of the world came and went already, unknown singer on the radio. You’re _late_. And wrong, because it’s bigger than one person, anyway. 

_Now we’re lying to ourselves, Sir? I see,_ Brit-butler muttered. Quiet. He was his creation, in his head and he should not have to listen to this. Took a longer swallow of his drink. He knew how to shut the voices up. 

Rowdy looked over at him, frowning. “Come on. Zeke wouldn’t do that.” 

He made a skeptical noise and she straightened up and took his chin in her hand to look into his face. “Deacon, what’s the matter, you feeling okay?” 

“Love’s a lie. There’s no tooth fairy. We live alone, we die alone and nothing we do matters,” Deacon said and waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’m fine. Let’s talk about your poetry.” Her hand on his face was light and soft and smelled like mech grease. Deacon looked over her shoulder and saw MacCready watching them, his shoulders stiff. As soon as Deacon met his eyes, he dropped his. 

Rowdy stayed where she was, close enough that she could no doubt see through the tinted lenses. He kept his expression steady, a little bored. Finally, she released his chin with a pat on the cheek. “All right, I guess.” 

“So tell me,” he said and picked up her piece of paper. “Are hammers, uh, a metaphor?” 

Rowdy sighed and looked discouraged. "No. Zeke says everyone's got poetry in their soul but I don't think there's any in mine." 

Deacon began turning various well-worn clichés over in his mind. _What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You can't please everyone. Practice makes perfect. Do, or do not. Keep on truckin'. The first step is the most difficult. Speak from your heart. If at first, you don't succeed..._

"Write what you know and you can’t go wrong," he said, in a chirpy imitation of Piper at her most irritating. "Talk about how the Cats changed your life, make it short and sweet and you'll have them begging for more." 

Her lips parted slightly and she touched the tip of her tongue to one, looking thoughtful. "Wow, Deacon. That’s actually a good idea." She smiled and punched him in the shoulder. "Thanks." 

Ouch. Deacon rubbed his shoulder. "No problem, sweetheart." Then he looked back toward the table that he'd just left. MacCready was watching them again, but then averted his gaze. Deacon stared back and then leaned over to where Rowdy was scribbling. 

"Forlorn, forsaken, friendless," he read out loud. "Nice alliteration. I like it." He put one hand on the back of her neck and moved closer, until he could feel the warmth of her body. Her hair smelled like fire and solder, underlain with a hint of antiseptic. Different from gun oil and leather and... Checked his peripheral vision and caught MacCready staring at him again. 

Rowdy lifted her head, bringing his attention back to her. "I dunno about this, but this is more than I've gotten before," she said. Showed him the lines. He caught sight of 'red staining the ground, like my heart bleeding' and he had to look away. Memory of MacCready, falling limply to the ground in that cursed ravine and Deacon suddenly realizing that the entire left side of his duster was soaked in his blood. Feeling helpless, even as he tightened the makeshift tourniquet that the idiot had wrapped around his arm instead of taking ten seconds to inject a stimpak. 

Rowdy spoke again, startling him out of his thoughts. “Is it enough, you think?” she asked, and the fact that she was taking Poetry Night so seriously was damn charming, even for her. 

"It doesn’t matter if it’s short if it’s good," he said, with an effort. Glanced back and saw Nick and Hancock sitting alone. Looked around, with nothing particular in mind, ha-ha, right, Deacon and caught sight of MacCready. He was sitting on a chair at the counter while Bluejay mixed some drinks. Lifted a shot glass and tossed it down, then his shoulders hunched when he said something to Bluejay. Bluejay lifted his head and looked right at Deacon, then he shrugged and said something that made Mac laugh. 

Goddamnit, he hated... He looked away, determined to ignore them and curled his arm tighter around Rowdy's shoulders. "You watch it, angel, you might have a talent," he told her. 

He glanced back at the bar to find that MacCready had turned around to look at them. Deacon grinned cheerfully at him and waved with the hand that was resting on Rowdy's shoulder. MacCready frowned and turned back to the counter. Bluejay put on a sympathetic face and leaned over to rub his shoulder and arm consolingly. Handsy bastard. Deacon didn’t remember any comforting mini-massages anytime _he’d_ been here. 

Rowdy shrugged her shoulders under the weight of his arm and then looked at him questioningly. “You wantin’ company later, Deacon?” 

He took his arm off her shoulders and onto the sofa back. "Shit. Sorry. I got a little carried away." His gaze wandered back over to the bar. 

Rowdy laughed. “I was wondering if you were suddenly gettin' nostalgic.” She turned her head to follow his gaze. “Oh, I get it. You show-off. You interested in that guy with Bluejay?” 

Deacon shrugged carelessly. "Don’t get the wrong idea. He's my biographer, he's writing my life story. See, he has to follow me around to get the details straight, but I don't like my freedom constrained so I insist he keep twenty feet away at all times. It's sometimes a little tricky, but those are the sacrifices that you make for literary immortality." 

She looked at him sidelong and wrinkled up her nose. “Nice try. I’ve seen him with Blue before.” She folded her arms and leaned back against his chest casually. “Not bad.” 

Deacon frowned. “Don’t get your hopes up. He’s a racist and a bigot.” 

Rowdy pursed her lips together. “Well, he’s a cute racist bigot.” She glanced over again, and said, “So wait a minute. You had him already or you want him?” 

He realized that the hand that should be lying relaxed on his thigh was clenched. Carefully released it. Rowdy glanced from the hand to his face and rolled her eyes. “Think you waited too long, Jack. Bluejay’s gonna scoop him up.” 

“I really don’t care....” Sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bluejay, with his natural dark pomaded hair, and his smooth handsome face. Okay, sure, some might call him an entirely generic, bland, forgettable non-entity, with barely any personality... A stuffed mannequin that was brainless to boot. And they would be _right._

_I believe the appropriate comment would be ‘meow’_ , Brit-butler said. _Is Sir absolutely certain that he does not wish to simply retire to bed?_

“Yeah, right, tell me another, Deacon.” Rowdy saw something in his face that amused her, lips quirking upward. She set her poem down, hitched up her skirts and hopped onto his lap. Twined her arms around his neck and laughed at his expression. “I guess you’re stuck with second best, huh?” 

Crap. Was it too late to have another drink and go quietly to bed? He tilted his head downward enough to look at her over the tops of his sunglasses. “Rowdy, what are you doing?” he whispered. 

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Making him jealous. Besides, I owe ya for helping with the poem.” She shifted her weight on his lap and looked at him impishly. “Oh, so you _do_ like him.” 

Deacon had to take a moment to keep his expression neutral. She was shifting on top of his _dick,_ and he suddenly kinda wanted to strangle her. “Stop it.” 

She leaned forward, moving down and right _there_ , and making his breath hitch involuntarily. He glared at her. She put one hand over her mouth and giggled. “Something wrong, Deacon?” 

He started to shove her away but she whispered, with a quick sideways look. “Ooh, he’s looking, he is steamed.” 

Deacon froze. “Bluejay?” he whispered cautiously. In his imagination, mental-Dez and Brit-Butler clutched their heads in despair. Fuck them. _He_ didn’t care. 

She shook her head minutely. “Nope. The pretty racist.” 

He grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up higher so he could turn enough to get a clear look at the bar. Bluejay was smiling at MacCready and pointing at the side of his face. Then he leaned forward and brushed his thumb over the corner of Mac’s mouth. His smile widened. Got it, the smile said. And also: got _you._ It was disgustingly cute. Deacon swore under his breath. 

Rowdy shrugged and propped her elbow on his shoulder. “Yeah. Bluejay’s good. There's a reason he gets all those low prices." She looked at him sideways and raised her eyebrows. “Ya know what you gotta do, right? Get even.” 

Deacon shook his head again. “No.” He, Deacon, did not give a shit if MacCready chose to flirt with every fucking person in this bar. Quick look over, and oops, met MacCready’s eyes looking back. He tightened his arms around Rowdy’s waist and pulled her closer. She came with a willing squirm that made Deacon's groin tighten, damn it—and put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him. 

Her lips were soft and warm and she tasted like beer. Deacon was aware of a curiously flat sensation, okay, kiss, um, nice, he supposed. Jesus. He pulled his head back and said, “Cool it.” She huffed and Deacon got a mouthful of her dark hair and tried to discretely spit it out. Felt a surge of exasperation. What the hell was he doing? 

_I think that's my line,_ mental-Dez murmured. He should be too busy to with, uh, with Railroad stuff to worry about this. Hanging around Blue was a clear mistake, he should be doing his real job, being a fucking _spy_ , which was way more interesting and important than, for example, running a stupid bar in the middle of nowhere... 

Zeke tapped the microphone, making them jump and resulting in an impressive booming sound that brought all the conversations to a halt. Rowdy twisted around on his lap and looked toward the front. Zeke was beckoning to her. 

"Hey, Rowdy,” he called. "Come on, let's go!" 

She scowled at him. "No, no, I can't." 

Deacon leaned forward with her in his arms enough to pick up her poem. Took the opportunity to shift her forward, onto his thighs. Much more comfortable. He read over her poem. It wasn't bad. "Sure you can. C'mon, it's good." She hesitated, looking from him to Zeke and he rubbed her back soothingly. "Hey, you can discount my taste in other things, but my poetic taste is impeccable." 

"You go too," she blurted out abruptly. 

Deacon stopped rubbing and turned his head to look down at her. "What?" 

She took a deep breath and smiled. "Yeah. Please? I mean, even if I suck, at least I won't be the last one that they hear. You know stuff, like poetry, right?" 

"Well, yeah, but—" Deacon floundered, even as he couldn't help but admit that yes, he did actually know, read and like poetry. Which already put him ahead of most of the audience. Like MacCready, the cretin. Did not look over to where he was sitting at the counter, although his peripheral vision informed him that Bluejay was pouring Mac another drink, and leaning closer, hands braced on the bar, sympathy oozing from all of his pores. Like the poison slime from one of those mirelurk queens. Where was one of those when you needed it, huh? 

Rowdy flashed him a big relieved smile, obviously taking that for a yes. She climbed off him adroitly and stood up. "All right, I'll try it," she told Zeke. Deacon stood up, too, and gave her a hug. She tipped her head back to look at him, and then gave him a kiss on the lips. Deacon stilled for a moment and then relaxed. Her lips were still soft and uh... Well, unobjectionable, he guessed. When the kiss ended, he bumped her nose with his and grinned at her. Deacon could see MacCready watching them out of the corner of his eye, his face set. 

As Rowdy reached the microphone, he went to stand next to Nick and Hancock’s table. 

Nick's eyebrows raised. "What was that all about? You find out about that armor?" 

Deacon looped his thumbs through his belt loops. "Nick, Nick," he said, mock-scolding. "This is art. Culture. Much more important than dumb old armor repairs." 

Hancock looked sly. "Sure, Deacon. Whatever you say." 

He couldn't help but see MacCready now, the stupid oaf was square in his field of vision. Rowdy looked hesitantly out into the room, from behind the microphone and searched the faces until she found him. Deacon saw MacCready's head turn and he flashed her a big thumb and forefinger circle and then blew an extravagant kiss. He was having fun, everything was cool, this was just another night. Rowdy’s smile widened into a grin and she looked down, blushing. Nick coughed and leaned on the table on one elbow; Hancock looked like he was rolling his eyes. MacCready's head snapped back around toward the front and his back stiffened. 

The rest of the Atom Cats clapped and yelled out encouragement to Rowdy. Bluejay moved around the counter, and sat down next to MacCready. Leaned close to whisper something in his ear, and then stepped things up a notch by putting an arm around him. Deacon scowled to himself. Fucker. Mac did not push him away. Deacon took a step forward and then forced himself to stop and relax his posture. Rowdy took the microphone from Zeke, and said "Test, test." 

Zeke turned a couple of knobs and flipped a switch. Then he gave her a thumb's up. One of the others spun one of the lights around so that it shone on her, on her dark hair and eyes. She took a deep breath and brought the microphone up to her lips. “I wanna call this one, uh, A new life.” 

I was 

Forlorn, forsaken, friendless 

The red staining the ground 

Like my heart bleeding 

Everything is light. 

And then a metal giant is there, 

Stooping over me, weapon upraised. 

I think, he’s here to finish up my life 

I close my eyes and wait for the end 

But instead he lifts me up 

And carries me away, to dark and pain, 

Of life and power and purpose 

I'm no longer alone, abandoned, adrift 

I am maintained 

I am adopted 

I am metal. 

There was a long breathless pause and then the assembled Cats broke out in applause. Rowdy grinned and ducked her chin shyly. Bluejay was still whispering to MacCready, and now he was so close that he was practically sitting in Mac's lap, the fucker. Rowdy walked to the back of the room and stopped in front of him, bouncing a little on her toes. "Well?" 

Deacon flung his arms around her and lifted her dramatically off her feet. Swung her around, once, twice, three times while Zeke and Duke and Kyle whooped and laughed. Stopped and set her down on her feet, and she giggled with one hand on her forehead. "Oh my gosh, I'm dizzy." 

With his arms still around her, he looked toward the bar. Met MacCready's eyes and smiled, bent his head to nuzzle her neck, her hair (keeping his damn mouth closed this time). He could see MacCready in his peripheral vision, apparently fuming, hands gripping his beer bottle tightly enough that his fingertips were turning white. 

Bluejay's arm slid down his back until he could tuck one hand under his jacket. MacCready looked down and took a deep breath. 

Rowdy looked up at Deacon, eyebrows raised. "Giving him a show, Jack?" she asked archly. “I’m guessing you ain’t gonna be showing up my room later.” 

Deacon ducked his head, in a show of contrition. "Sorry," he mumbled. 

Her lips quirked. “I oughta smack you for getting a girl revved up and leaving her at the starting gate. If you change your mind, I'll be around.” She turned him toward the front and gave him a little push. "I’ll forgive ya if you do your part. Now, go'wan. You promised." 

Hancock started laughing. "Deacon, you didn't. Man, you did. This should be good." Deacon saw MacCready turn on his stool, head cocked, in his peripheral vision. 

"Moral support, Hancock," Deacon grumbled. He hadn't really expected her to hold him to it. 

Zeke walked through the crowd, in turns cajoling and teasing. "Hey, guys, who else? Duke, let's hear what you've been working on." 

Duke shook his head. "No, not yet, Zeke." 

Zeke frowned. "Oh, c'mon." Looked around hopefully. "Anyone else?" 

Rowdy looked over at Deacon and narrowed her eyes. Deacon hesitated and then raised his hand. "Can a guest take a turn?" 

Zeke started clapping. "Yeah, man! Yeah, get up here!" Waved with the microphone. "Let's have a big round of applause for our friend Deacon!" 

Deacon looked around warily. Too late for second thoughts, but... He was uncomfortable with this much attention focused on him. He swallowed and glanced over at MacCready. The other man was grinning at him cheekily, probably well aware how Deacon was feeling, the jerk. Hancock's lips twitched and Nick looked sympathetic. 

"If you don't want to, you don't have to," Nick said. He gestured to the chair next to him. “Just sit down.” 

"Yeah, sure, chicken out, Deacon, it's fine," MacCready called, grinning maliciously. “No one, oh wait, I mean _everyone_ will hold it against you.” 

Bluejay chuckled. "Don't say that, Mac. He don't wanna be known as a drip and a loser." 

Rowdy raised her eyebrows questioningly and Deacon took a deep breath. Like he’d let that jerk tell him— "No, let's do this," Deacon said. Grinned at her cheerfully. "Kiss for luck?" 

She smiled and then went up on tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. Then gave him a quick hug, whispering, "You know, if you're trying to show him up this bad, you ain't near over him." 

_Tell me something I don’t know._ Deacon shrugged and refused to look at her, and she went over and sat back down on the sofa, shaking her head ruefully. Deacon glanced over to find MacCready scowling down at the floor. He waited until he looked up and then licked his lips deliberately. MacCready's fists clenched and Deacon turned his back on him. 

"You all are about to be very surprised." It wasn't like he didn't have verses of memorized poetry rolling around in his head. He wasn't sure any of it would impress the Atom Cats. They didn't look like the Shakespearian type, or Romantic, or even Modern. Limericks maybe. 

He made his way to the front, accepting several hearty slaps and shakes. The Cats were an enthusiastic bunch. He climbed onto the stage and Zeke gave him a manly half-hug. "Deacon, cool, man. Shoulda known you had poetry in your soul!" 

"Yeah, well, hear it first," Deacon said wryly. They spun the light around on him and he blinked behind his sunglasses. It hadn't looked that bright from the audience, but up here, it was dazzling. He could barely see where MacCready was still sitting at the counter, with Bluejay's arm around him. The bastard. He gave them a particularly bright smile and MacCready frowned, then deliberately leaned back into Bluejay's embrace. Bluejay dipped his head down and whispered into his ear, which brought his lips awfully close to Mac’s skin. MacCready kept his eyes fixed on Deacon's, while Bluejay gave up all pretense of speech and just outright nuzzled his neck. Deacon’s hands clenched on the microphone as his vision got a reddish tinge. _Fuck_ them. Fuck _him_. _God damn it_. Zeke flipped the switch on the recorder and gave him a thumb's up. 

Deacon took a breath and had to unclench his teeth as a certain set of song lyrics leaped into his mind. Yeah, that would do just fine. “So, this is a little homage to our favorite detective." A few puzzled faces out there, probably at the word ‘homage’ while the others craned their heads to look back at Nick and Hancock. Nick snorted and the room quieted quickly. Hancock grinned and elbowed Nick in the ribs. Deacon started talking quickly, before he could change his mind. 

Sooner or later there’s nowhere to hide 

Sooner or later you can’t stop the lies 

It’s time that you swallowed your pride, 

I always get my man. 

I’m in the right and you’re in the wrong 

Why do you fight when inside you’ve known 

Soon you’ll be lost, all alone, 

And I always get my man. 

But if you insist, babe, the challenge delights me 

The more you resist, babe, the more it excites me 

If you’re on my list, you’re already in my sights 

Deacon squinted into the lights and nearly spit the next words, "Face it, before someone dies, I always get my man.” He realized that he was staring straight at MacCready and had been the whole time. Dragged his gaze away with an effort. Noticed others in the audience shooting quick glances toward the bar as he continued: 

And when you break down 

I’ll be there watching 

The more that you frown 

The more that I’m laughing 

All the people you’ve hurt 

See you get what you’ve earned. 

Honey, it’s past time you learned 

I always get my man. 

Deacon ran out of steam—and lyrics—abruptly. The bar was dead silent and MacCready was sitting with his head down. Deacon took a breath and carefully loosened his grip on the mike. Bluejay leaned down and whispered something to Mac. Rowdy was smiling ruefully and shook her head but started clapping. The others followed suit as MacCready shoved back from the bar with a loud scrape on the concrete floor. 

MacCready stood up so quickly that his stool fell over with a clatter and then he left, slamming the door behind him. Bluejay looked confused for an instant and then jumped to his feet and followed him. 

Deacon smiled distantly. Several Cats approached the stage, a lot more tentatively then they’d been after Rowdy, Deacon noticed. He forced himself to keep a relaxed pose, when what he really wanted to do was go after MacCready and Bluejay. Throw a punch. Start a fight. Stupid, Deacon! 

_If Sir knows that it’s stupid, why does Sir even entertain the notion?_ Brit-butler asked. 

Roxy said hesitantly. "It's catchy. I like it." She looked at him sideways. "Is it about someone?" Little hush from the others. 

Deacon accepted a beer from Kyle and took a swallow, that turned into a long gulp that drained the glass. Kyle and Zeke looked impressed. It made it a lot easier to meet their eyes and laugh, eyes twinkling in his own personal patented _everything-is-cool, nothing-to-see-here_ look. “Aww, you know how much I admire Nick.” Quick snap decision. “And old stuff. Yeah, I can’t take all the credit, that was from an old song I heard somewhere.” 

The faces around him switched from concerned to admiring, just like magic. Zeke threw his head back and laughed. “Man, you really had us going! All right, good to know. Gonna add that one to the archives.” 

“Archives?” Nick asked, from behind him. Deacon looked at him wryly. He hadn’t seen him get up. 

Zeke grinned. “The man, uh, synth of the hour!” He slapped Nick’s back and then grimaced, shaking his hand. “Roxy, you’re next, right?” 

“Zeke, no.” She walked off and the little knot of people broke up, straggling over to the bar and out among the tables. Zeke flipped the switch on the equipment and Diamond City Radio boomed out from the speakers, nearly deafening everyone close to the stage. Deacon ducked down the side that MacCready had left from. He was headed for the exit door when Nick caught his arm. 

Deacon turned around. Nick was staring at him piercingly. “And what was that about?” 

Deacon straightened his sunglasses and tried for a casual tone. “Aw, man, you know inspiration, always striking first and asking later.” 

Nick frowned and lit a cigarette. “Really.” 

Deacon wasn’t really paying attention. He took another step toward the door where MacCready had exited. 

Nick's voice startled him. "I don't think that would be very wise." He blew out a stream of smoke and said, “Why don’t you come sit with me and Hancock.” He nodded decisively, and switched his cigarette to his other hand and took Deacon’s upper arm with the metal hand. “Yeah.” 

The tone of voice made it an order, not a question. Deacon looked down at the hand on his arm and gave in with bad grace. Nick seemed relaxed but he wouldn’t bet that he wasn’t prepared to drag him...if he needed to. “Fine,” he muttered and let Nick lead him back to the table. It didn’t matter where MacCready went. He didn’t care, at all. He didn’t need any of this bullshit, anyway. 

Hancock seemed to be enjoying a private joke, smiling down at the table. Deacon noticed that at least the drugs were gone. Small fucking favors. He sat down in his vacated chair with a thunk, and leaned back, tipping it on two legs. 

Hancock made a smothered sound like a laugh and Deacon stared at him. Hancock picked up his cup and took a sip, black eyes watching him over the rim. “I’m not even gonna ask.” 

Deacon sat back down with a thud and picked up his empty glass. Spun it around on one edge. “Really not getting the subtext here, guys. I’m all right. I’m just fine.” 

Hancock chuckled and lifted the bottle of whiskey. "Sure you are. Drink?" 

“You read my mind,” Deacon replied. Hancock poured a respectable two-fingers and Deacon smiled. Huh. Child’s play. Then he tossed it all down in one gulp, grimacing at the burn in his throat. He set his glass down to find them both watching him. He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. 

Nick and Hancock exchanged looks and then Nick said, “Look, Deacon. You, uh, you wanna talk about that?" 

Deacon spun his empty glass around again and caught it adroitly before it went off the edge of the table. “I don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about, Nick.” Deacon smiled and then pointedly changed the subject. "But tell me, how’s Cait taking sobriety?" 

The two across from him looked at each other again and Nick frowned, a barely-there expression that vanished so quickly, Deacon wasn’t sure he’d seen it. 

Hancock tapped his fingers on the bottle and shrugged. “Cait. Well, there’s a story. Hell, in my opinion, the only fun thing about climbing on the wagon is falling off. As spectacularly as possible." He poured for Deacon again. 

Deacon regarded the cup. He should be ditching drinks but... He picked it up and restrained himself to a short sip, not a gulp and then realized that he’d missed a couple of Hancock’s sentences, his voice fading in and out a little. "Then she gets all offended over something Curie was making at her chem station and Cait got in her face and scared her into next week. Then Preston heard about it, and of course, Mr. Goody Two Shoes has to put his oar in...."


	5. I got my rock moves and I don't want you tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember last story, I drew a couple of names that I didn't use? Well, Shubba and TinyFakeFanficRock hope you are okay with being NPCs in this story!  
> Tags: Deacon/MacCready, erectile dysfunction

Hancock was laughing and Deacon was finding it slightly more difficult to follow his converstation. Convers- _asa_ tion. Or...story. Whatever. The empty bottles on the table probably had something to do with that. Nick was sitting quietly on the far side of the table, smoking steadily. They’d been joined by a couple of Cats and Cricket and her guards, who seemed to think their main mission was to drink Hancock under the table. They were failing. Deacon, on the other hand, was keeping up nicely. 

At some point, someone pulled out a pack of cards and got a game going. Deacon had about, oh, fifty caps in front of him. He hadn’t gotten them from his pack. He had a vague memory of rifling through some drawers behind Bluejay’s counter—the _bastard_ —before Nick poked his head over the top, frowned at him and brought him back to the group. 

In the current game, Nick was out. Cricket was out, like out cold actually, collapsed across a neighboring table and snoring loudly. Len was out. Deacon, Hancock, the guards and Kyle were still in. 

“Last bet,” Hancock said. “Five more.” 

“I’m in,” Deacon answered. He tossed caps onto the pile. Deacon had three of a kind, with an ace-ten kicker but he doubted that he’d be grabbing the pot. Hancock had been smacking his lips and making various sounds of satisfaction and one of the guards had a smug look in his eyes. That one already had five caps counted out and ready to go for his turn. 

The other guard hesitated, glancing back and forth between her remaining caps and her cards. 

“Lemme tell you a story,” Hancock said, leaning back into his chair. “So a man goes into a bar with a pet molerat and he says, I'll bet everyone in here I can put my up-close-and-personals in this molerat’s mouth and not get a scratch.” Len looked up and laughed. Nick flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, his face unreadable. 

Hancock took a drink of his vodka and held up one finger. “For a whole minute, mind. Well, that caused a commotion, and there were a number of fine folks willing to take that bet. So the guy gets up on the bar, drops his pants and puts his dick in the molerat’s mouth. The crowd starts counting and when they get to sixty, he grabs a beer bottle and hits the molerat on the head. It opens its mouth and he pulls his junk out.” Hancock tipped his glass again, eyes shining. He glanced around the table. “You feel me?” 

Everyone nodded. Shubba took one more look at her cards, and tossed them down. “Fold,” she said. 

Tiny was already talking over her. “See you and raise another five.” 

Kyle folded. Hancock tossed in caps. 

“Call,” Deacon said and set caps onto the pile. He took another sip of the amber liquid in his glass. Bourbon. Or whiskey. Or something that was a near enough cousin. Near enough so that everything looked all golden-tinged and better from the bottom of the glass. He remembered telling Blue that once and chuckled to himself. See, he didn’t even _sound_ drunk. It was a fucking gift. 

Hancock was talking again. “Not a scratch on the guy’s dick! So then he says, I’ll pay anyone else willing to do that a hundred caps, cash on the barrel. Any takers?” Hancock glanced at him and winked. “And someone at the back of the bar piped up and said—” He paused dramatically, eyebrows raised. 

Deacon remembered the punchline and decided to have a little fun. He raised his hand. “Hey, mister,” Deacon said. “I’ll do it. Just don’t hit me on the head with the bottle.” 

Another slightly-longer pause and the Cats started laughing. Shubba looked confused. Tiny slapped his thigh and pointed at Deacon. “Oh! You’re the rat! Oh my god, you’re the rat!” 

Deacon stared at him. He almost said, um, not exactly the point, because the joke actually worked by subverting expectations and adding a naughty double entendre. Just the thought of all those words made his tongue tired. Plus, Tiny was not tiny, and a bit dim to boot. Tiny smacked the table and Deacon’s empty glass fell over. 

Hancock put his hand on the table and said, “Let’s just lay this out here,” and set down a straight, three to seven. Tiny grinned and slapped down four-a-kind—fives. Hmmm...no jacks on the table. Tiny started to reach for the pot, gloating. 

Deacon cleared his throat. “I hate to disappoint you all, but hey, it’s the rules!” Laid down his four-of-a-kind—jacks. Ace high. 

Shubba hiccuped. “That was a stupid story. And I hate puns.” 

Tiny looked from his cards to Deacon’s and a flash of disappointment passed over his face. A flash that quickly turned to anger. He glared at Deacon. “What the hell?” 

Deacon ignored him and looked at Shubba curiously. “Hancock’s story wasn’t a pun.” He found himself wondering where she thought the wordplay was—some euphemism for male sex organs that he was unaware of? He went to take a sip and found his cup empty and tipped over, and blinked at it blearily. 

Tiny was looking at all the hands on the table, clearly suspicious. He reached for Kyle’s hand and Kyle covered it. “Hands to you’self.” 

“Puns are stupid,” Shubba grumbled. She picked up her cards and tried to toss them into the center and missed. They fluttered down, still mostly face-down. 

“It’s not a pun,” Tiny echoed. “God, Shubba, you’re so dumb.” He leaned forward and quickly flipped Shubba’s cards. 

Oh. Two pair and a jack. Oops. There was a beat while they all stared at Shubba’s cards and Deacon’s. Five jacks. Well, to even the slowest of slow hands, that seemed...improbable. 

“Think I’ll head to bed now,” Deacon said hastily. Scooped up his caps, debated reaching for the pot and decided a quick escape was preferable. 

Shubba flushed red. “Don’t call me dumb!” She pushed Tiny hard, knocking his arm off the table. 

Tiny ignored her, and kept staring at Deacon. He was getting a dangerous look. “This guy’s a cheater!” he shouted. He lunged forward over the table and Deacon ducked. 

Okay, discretion was clearly the better part of valor. Deacon pushed back from the table as Nick grabbed Tiny’s arm. “Now, now, that was just a joke, he’ll give you the pot.” He fixed Deacon with a steely glare. “Right, Deacon?” 

Deacon did his best smile and shrug, while Shubba jumped up and pushed Tiny again. She looked as mad as only a completely drunken person could. “This one—” shove at Tiny, “Been lording it over me!” Shove. “All this trip!” Shove. 

“Damnit, Shubs, stop pushin’ me!” Tiny made a fist and brandished it wildly. Nick ducked and it hit Kyle square in the nose. Wow. That looked like it hurt. 

“Hey, jerk, watch it!” Len growled and swung at Tiny. Tiny ducked, unsuccessfully and got a fist to the temple and staggered back. Shubba leaped to her partner’s defense. Deacon stuck a foot between hers and she face-planted half across Kyle, swinging wildly. They both fell over backward in his chair in a confusing mess of fists and feet. Tiny swore and punched Len in the stomach. Cricket woke up, looked around with a dazed look and then grabbed Len’s arm and bit it. Deacon scooted back farther, and then.... Well, and then it devolved into the sort of general chaos that only a well-lubricated bunch of drinkers can create. Truly, a thing of beauty. 

Hancock and Nick both waded in, yelling and grabbing arms and trying to calm the waters. It didn’t seem to be working. Shubba climbed off Kyle and jumped onto Hancock’s back and knocked his hat off. “Not playing fair, sweetheart,” Hancock grumbled, before flipping her over neatly so that she crashed onto the table. One table leg broke, sending cards, caps and her to the floor. 

Deacon already had one hand on the door knob and took one last look back. You know, a fight could be fun. If one was in the right mood. Deacon pursed his lips thoughtfully. Or one could take advantage of the fact that certain ghoul and synth busybodies had literally not let him out of their sight for hours. Deacon might be drunk but that didn’t mean that he didn’t recognize babysitting. Especially when it was aimed at him. 

A glass flew through the air and shattered on the wall next to him. Deacon decided that this was an opportune time to make his escape. While the others had their hands...er...full. Hah. “Well, I’m off to get my beauty sleep. G’night Nick, Hancock!” he said brightly. 

Nick looked over from where he was currently trying to keep Len and Cricket apart. “Deacon, wait—” 

Deacon slammed the door behind him, cutting off any further conversation. He looked around the dark yard. Probably, um, about two or three in the morning. See, here was the thing. He’d been sitting where he could see the door. All night. And. And. And. And. 

_And—_

Bluejay hadn't come back. 

He walked to the bus, only stumbling once or twice. Empty. Then he began carefully picking his way along the perimeter fence. Looking for a _surveling_ spot. Surveying. Watching. Quiet. Away from the rest of the yard. He tripped over some tires and tried to kick them aside impatiently. Ow. Hurt his foot. 

The skeleton of the car was next to the tires, with the hood and motor gone. He leaned on it while rubbing his ankle. Seats and windshield gone. Ahh. Idea. Good enough. He ducked into the stripped interior and looked out over the dash. The door to MacCready's trailer was somewhere...uh, thataway. He pulled out Deliverer and squinted through the scope until he found a rectangular object. Objects. Two doors. Wait, that wasn’t... He blinked and held the scope closer. Um. Still two blurry doors. He stopped trying to close one eye and instead concentrated on his dominant eye. There. The two doors slowly merged into one. Gun loaded, check. Silencer on. 

He propped the gun on the steering wheel so he wouldn't get too fatigued holding it. And then sat back to wait, humming song lyrics in his head. _Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world? It ended when I lost your love._ About four songs later, the door opened. If he hadn't been watching, he would have missed it. No lights in the trailer, nothing but moonlight to show the man who stood in the doorway, leisurely straightening his collar. Deacon gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. 

Sighted down the scope until Bluejay's torso leaped into his vision, big as life and twice as ugly. His finger twitched on the trigger guard. Then he caught a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye and swore under his breath. Seriously? 

Sudden blurring in the scope’s sight and the gun jerked upward. Lost track of the damn Atom Cat. Deacon looked up into Hancock’s eyes. The ghoul had one hand wrapped around Deliverer’s barrel, also blocking the scope. 

"You gonna drop that and play nice or do I haveta knock you on the head?” Hancock said. His black eyes were bright with mischief, as if he truly didn’t care which option Deacon picked. See, that was why Deacon didn’t trust him. No one should be that cheerful all the goddamn time. 

Deacon craned his head to see around the ghoul. Bluejay, the bastard, was squinting up at the mist. Matter of seconds before he stepped down and disappeared into the dark. Hancock cuffed the side of his head, lightly, but the force still made his head swim. Deacon released the gun and breathed out. Glared up at Hancock resentfully. His hand was stiff from gripping the weapon. 

Hancock unloaded it briskly. Slid the gun and the bullets into separate pockets of his red frock coat. “You can have that back tomorrow.” He shook his head and grabbed Deacon’s arm to help him up. “You know, you could just go and talk to him.” 

Deacon took a step and tripped over the damn tires again. Hancock caught him and hauled him upright with a grunt. 

Deacon found himself nose to n—er, face with the ghoul’s dark eyes. "Saw a, uh, a magazine that you’d like, Hancock,” Deacon said. “’S called _Mind your own fucking business._ " 

Hancock snorted laughter. “That does sound like my kind of thing,” he said agreeably. “I guess if you wanna be miserable, friend, go for it.” 

He draped Deacon’s arm over his shoulders and walked him back over to the bus. No need to be quiet. Deacon could have told him that. The bus was empty. Nick was still inside and MacCready... Well, he knew where he was. His stomach rolled over unpleasantly and he grimaced. 

Hancock kicked the door open and pulled him inside. “Sleep it off, pal. Things will look better in the morning.” He let go and Deacon sank down onto the nearest mattress, flat on his back. Whoa. When did the world start spinning? 

Hancock tossed a blanket at him and it fell across his face. Deacon didn’t bother removing it. “You tell that to all the girls and boys when you’re giving them a ‘tour of the town’?” He tried to make air quotes but his hands just flopped down limply. “I’m going to feel like shit in the morning.” He was dismayed to hear his own slurred, self-pitying words. “I sound like I’m drunk,” he muttered. 

Hancock pulled the blanket off his face and spread it over him. “Buddy, I hate to break it to you, but you are drunk.” 

“Whatever.” Deacon threw an arm over his face to block out both the spinning ceiling and Hancock’s sympathetic eyes. Which, how the hell did he manage to look sympathetic, with black eyes? It was a puzzle. 

“Hey, you want some Jet or Med-X, let me know, I’ll take care of you, pal.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Deacon said darkly. He heard Hancock chuckle and then the ghoul left, closing the bus door firmly behind him, and clicking the lock closed. Huh. He could get out if he wanted. Except... Nick was probably somewhere close and didn’t have Hancock’s...distractionability. Affability. Whatever. He turned half onto his side and swallowed back bile. 

While he waited for the world to stop spinning, he imagined what would happen if he went back to HQ. Carrington, he would be as smug as hell, all hidden behind a fake sympathetic exterior. “Again, Deacon?” he’d sigh. Flicking a syringe held up to the light. “There’s only so many times we can do this, you know.” 

Drummer Boy would laugh initially, because that was what he always did when he was completely freaked. He’d never seen Deacon this out of it. Then he’d probably ask a bunch of stupid questions. “Uh. Strange. I mean, have you been upset, Deacon? Or. Just, um, um. Should I get Desdemona? Or...anybody?” 

Tinker Tom would immediately demand to get just as messed up as Deacon was and badger him until he gave him something, a drink, a hit, whatever. Tinker always got really fucking morose when he was high, though, so then it would be all, “My family calling me through the veil, Deac, you hear that? C’mon, Tom, c’mon over and join us. And bring us a ‘lurk steak and some corn, maybe, ‘cuz we ain’t had a good meal in ages.” 

Glory would go icy-cold and remote, her beautiful face as expressionless as a mask. “Thought you’d gotten off that shit, Deacon. It’s going to kill you if you don’t.” Flash of glorious defiance in her face, good ol’ Glory, giving the finger to everyone. “Not that I give a crap.” 

And Desdemona—she would just stare at him, resigned, troubled, but with a hint of sympathy somewhere behind her dark eyes. She knew. She’d seen some bad things. Then she’d square her shoulders and flick her cigarette, and say, “Get some sleep, Deacon.” Shrug and blow out a smoke ring. “We’ll talk when you wake up.” 

Then, of course, he’d feel so guilty that it would be hard to sleep. Like now. He wondered if MacCready was asleep in the trailer and shook his head. He wasn't nearly drunk enough to think about that. He kept telling himself that until he finally fell asleep. 

The next morning, the sun rose and then gleefully drove red-hot splinters of metal into his eyeballs. Deacon groaned and turned over. Oh god. Kill him now. Nick’s metal hand yanked the blanket down with a gravelly "Hey, Wild Bill. Time to rise and shine.” 

Deacon groaned again. “Some sympathy here, Nick? I’m dying.” 

“It’s your own fault. Hancock told me the story,” Nick said heartlessly. “It’s obvious you two idiots need separated and we drew the short straw.” 

It took a while for that to sink into Deacon’s brain. First, Hancock tattled. Second, the two idiots included MacCready (good) as well as Deacon (not so good). Short straw plus Nick meant a hellishly early hour. Deacon managed to open one eye and focus on Nick’s face. “Hancock cheated so he wouldn’t have to get up first,” he rasped. 

Nick was unmoved. “Doesn’t matter. Some fresh air and a walk will do you good.” The bus door shushed shut behind him and the smell of fresh nicotine filled the air. Deacon sucked it in gratefully, aware that his heart was pounding in his chest. Nicotine, a stimulant, to combat the lingering effects of alcohol, a depressant. How many other effects could he get fighting it out in his body before he collapsed like a paper bag? 

Nick rapped impatiently on the door and Deacon clapped his hands over his ears. Damn straight-laced synth. He managed to fumble his way into his greaser outfit without throwing up. Yay. Score one for the good guys. He stuffed yesterday’s damp clothing into his pack. Hadn’t really unpacked much last night, which was good. And if ever there was a morning made for a ushanka cap, with the top flap unbuttoned and flopping down over his darkest sunglasses, this was it. Okay, ushanka and greaser jacket, not the best combo, but... Deacon burped and wrinkled his nose at the taste. And the _smell._ Fuck it. Empty holster at his side. 

He pried open the door and stepped outside. Nick raised his eyebrows. “Hancock’s got Deliverer,” he said, grimacing at the volume of his voice inside his skull. Lowered his tone to barely a whisper. “Get it back for me?” 

“Stay here,” Nick ordered as he left. Deacon hoped Hancock was ready to get yanked out of bed and searched. Hah. Served him right. He cast a final look around at the interior of the bus. Scowled at the bottle of bourbon next to the bed. Devil’s brew. Then he picked it up, watching the early morning light shine though the amber liquid. He decided it was too much work to dig out his toothbrush and took a generous swig. Swished it around his mouth to kill the early-morning breath and then swallowed. A little hair of the dog. He held his breath waiting to see if it would stay down. His stomach churned uneasily once or twice and then finally settled. He took another healthy drink for good measure and then poured the rest out onto the ground. Good thing Hancock wasn’t here, to see him wasting good liquor. He’d never forgive him. 

When he straightened up, the world was bright and glowy and everything looked relatively cheery. Fuck. Alcohol _lied._ The pounding in his head had died down to a dull throb which really wasn’t too much worse than he normally felt. But— he was _still_ drunk. Just how much had he and Hancock put away last night? 

He steadied himself on a rusting orange hulk while he reconstructed events. Atom Cats Garage. Check. Nick. Hancock. Okay, check. Poetry. He winced again and fought the urge to pull the ushanka lower. And then... He straightened up and stared across the yard toward the rusty trailer in one corner. The place where MacCready was probably sleeping right now, because Hancock, unlike Nick, was a considerate, _compassionate_ traveling companion. Hancock probably hadn’t even gone back to the trailer last night, no tie on the door required. 

Deacon dropped the bottle and it smashed on the ground. Carefully straightened, waited for his head to stop spinning and then walked toward it. MacCready. Damn him. The world narrowed down to that wooden door, with faded blue paint. He was half-expecting Nick to stop him, but he got all the way across the yard without the synth showing up. 

He finally reached the door and stopped in front of it, still swaying and clenching his fists. Alcohol was a mixed blessing in these circumstances; it provided a welcome layer of numbness but it was also too easy to get maudlin. Which was what he was doing, standing here pathetically outside his door. Deacon hesitated and then took one step forward and flattened his hand on the wood. Not knocking, not making a sound, just... Hoping? Wishing that things could be different. 

The little trailer was absolutely still, not a single creak or breath of sound. MacCready was probably so fast asleep that he wasn’t moving. Or maybe he was awake and staring at the door and wondering if Deacon was out there, if he would try to talk to him before their paths took them apart again... 

Deacon bowed his head forward and leaned it against the wood. “MacCready,” he said, too softly for anyone to hear. 

There was a rustle of movement and the trailer’s worn metal floor flexed with a sharp sound. “Deacon?” MacCready’s voice from the other side of the door. A shadow moved along the dim light that shone through the bottom threshold, where the warped wood didn’t quite meet the jamb. 

Deacon held his breath. This wasn’t him, he wasn’t here... He needed to get back, he and Nick had to get on the road. “Deacon.” A low-voiced mumble from the other side of the door, like someone talking to themselves, with no thought for listeners. “Damn it.” 

There was a moment of stillness, MacCready on his side of the door, Deacon on the other, hands pressed against the worn surface. Then the door knob began to turn and Deacon stepped back, thinking _This was a mistake_. 

The door yanked open. MacCready was on the other side, fully dressed, in the same clothes that he’d been wearing last night. 

Deacon started to turn away. “Deacon, wait, listen—” MacCready said, stepping down from the trailer and taking his arm. Then he frowned and looked at him more closely. “Are you—are you drunk?” 

Deacon tried to stand up straighter. “No,” he said. “Not that I care about your opinion.” 

“Um, okay, well, I’ve just never seen you...” MacCready trailed off and then he took a deep breath. “Listen, about last night—" 

Images of Bluejay, as he’d last seen him and earlier as he’d sat at the bar flickered through his mind, bringing a surge of anger and jealousy. Ugh. He was _way_ too drunk if he was admitting that, even in the privacy of his own head. He didn’t want to hear Mac’s rationale or excuses or anything. In fact, Deacon did not want to _talk_ or _think_ about last night so derailing this line of conversation right this instant was desperately important. 

Drunk-him took the simplest and most straight-forward method of shutting MacCready up. He stepped forward, took MacCready by the shoulders and leaned forward. And then kept leaning forward, almost to the point of overbalancing, until he managed to tilt his head enough to kiss him. Which, to be fair, did have the effect of making him stop talking. MacCready inhaled sharply, and then kissed him back, hard, clamping one hand on the back of his neck. Deacon’s sunglasses went askew and Mac’s hat fell onto the ground. 

He took a step forward and tripped, and MacCready grabbed him around the waist. “Deacon,” he said, breathlessly, but that was all he got out before Deacon covered his mouth with his own again, licking, nibbling, until his breathing quickened and he stopped trying to talk. They stumbled back a couple of steps until they could sink down onto the floor of the trailer. Deacon yanked at his buttons, his pants, untucking his long-sleeved shirt and pulling it up over his stomach. 

MacCready was almost too beautiful to look at, in that bright hazy morning sunlight, glowing on the fine dark hairs below his stomach, disappearing into his waistband. His belt was loose and Deacon didn’t even remember opening it, shit, he didn’t think he’d ever gotten MacCready undressed this quickly before, he was like some drunken savant. He bent down and kissed the soft skin of Mac’s stomach, and started unsnapping his fly. He was hard already, so Deacon spat into his hand and then took him in hand and stroked upward, slow but firm, like Mac liked it. MacCready’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Deacon, oh god, that feels, wait—” 

Deacon kissed him again, lingeringly. “I don’t want to wait,” he whispered. “I want you to come.” He could only look at him in quick glimpses, there and away, because it was like seeing the sun and it would blind him. Mac’s chest, with a scattering of dark hair, his stiff nipples, his cock, hard and flushed and shiny while Deacon stroked him, speeding up, then slowing until he was squirming and panting. His eyes opened, pupils blown wide and dark and his fingers clamped on Deacon’s arm. Deacon could feel the muscles in his thighs tensing, and let his hand dip teasingly down to lightly stroke his balls, lift them while tracing underneath and pressing gently, rhythmically. 

MacCready’s hips thrust upward in a quick, stuttering motion and Deacon knew he was close. Encircled him with his hand and went faster, focused the friction right on the sensitive underside. Mac made a choked noise and said, “Deacon, shit, I’m—” and Deacon leaned over to kiss him as he came, hot come pumping messily over Deacon’s hand and his own stomach. 

MacCready took a deep breath and sank back, boneless. There was a discarded tee shirt on the floor. Deacon snagged it to wipe his stomach and his hand and then tossed it onto the bed. Robert could deal with that later. Then Deacon realized that they were still lying on the trailer floor, door open and probably good odds of either Nick or Hancock walking up at any second. He tried to think through the haze of alcohol clogging his brain how he felt about that, and just gave it up as a bad job. 

He managed to stretch one leg out enough to nudge the door mostly closed and MacCready stirred. “Deacon, here, let me,” reaching fumbling down toward Deacon’s groin...where...where Deacon slowly realized there was a whole lotta nothin’ going on. Oh god. Drunk, horny, embarrassed, _and_ limp, this was a red-letter day and it was probably only seven am. 

“It’s all right,” he said and pushed Mac’s hand away. MacCready opened his eyes and smiled, so damn happy and just...so open, that Deacon fought an immediate urge to leap up and run. 

“Deacon, c’mon,” Robert said and his fingers drifted lower over Deacon’s waistband and to his fly. Tugging at the buttons ‘till the topmost popped free and Deacon scooted back abruptly, a sudden sense of panic clogging his throat. 

MacCready frowned and reached more and then his eyes flew open and he looked at Deacon questioningly. “What the hell? Is something—” 

Deacon shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that!” 

MacCready took a breath and let it out evenly, but his eyes were increasingly stormy. “Okay, then what was that about? You just grabbed me and you, you didn’t even want to? Was that a _pity-fuck_?” 

A dark blur on the back of the trailer door was gradually resolving itself into a familiar shape. Deacon stared at it and felt like a vice clamp was slowly tightening on his skull, ratcheting his throbbing hangover headache to eleven on a one to ten scale. He kicked the door hard and it fell onto the floor. An Atom Cats jacket. No, _Bluejay’s_ Atom Cats jacket. “And what the hell is that?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

He rolled over and looked at MacCready accusingly. Robert had pulled most of his clothing back on and was sitting with his arms clamped over his knees. “That’s none of your business,” he said tightly. 

Deacon got up on his knees, picked up the jacket and pulled the door open. Bright sunlight flooded in. “Awesome,” he said. “Well, I have to be going so I’ll just return this for you. Have a great life.” 

There was an echoing shrill noise in his ear, probably the sound of his liver or his heart or his brain shutting down. Or all three, hey, why not? His skin felt cold and brittle in the morning air. He took a step away from the trailer and nearly tripped on a loose rock. MacCready stared after him, his eyes bright blue in the sunlight and morning stubble making his jaw rough. “Wait. Don’t—just. Deacon, wait.” 

Deacon turned around and tossed the jacket back to him. Robert caught it and folded it in half nervously, avoiding his eyes. He looked so woebegone that Deacon almost took a step toward him, wrapped him in his arms. Then he hardened his heart deliberately. “So tell me, Robert,” he said, as nastily as he could. “Were you thinking about me when you fucked him?” 

He noted the shock MacCready’s face with bitter satisfaction. MacCready looked hurt, and for a second, Deacon felt bad, like he should apologize. 

Then his face went cold and stiff and he scowled and the moment passed. “I didn’t think of you at all,” he spat. Then he stomped into the trailer and slammed the door behind him.

.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So What by Pink (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJfFZqTlWrQ) was the musical inspiration for this story. 
> 
> For those of you that wanted to know more about Blue, check this story out: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734207/chapters/39253956


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